


Damaged Goods

by AUnionJill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftercare, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Azkaban, Death Eaters, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Family, Family Fluff, Forced Pregnancy, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, Loving Marriage, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Memory Alteration, Memory Charms, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, POV Alternating, POV Female Character, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Limited, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Points of View, Post-Canon, Post-Deathly Hallows, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Prison, Rape Aftermath, Rise of Voldemort, Torture, Villains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-25 20:04:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3823033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AUnionJill/pseuds/AUnionJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost two years ago, just weeks before her wedding, Ginny Weasley disappeared without a trace. Now, she's been found -- unconscious, broken, and bruised, but with no memory of her apparent kidnapping, her torture, or her assault. In a world that has moved on without her, Ginny struggles to find a foot-hold and, in the meantime, bring her captors to justice; but, as only time can tell, things are rarely as they seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I do not intend to profit from this story.

She was freezing cold.

Father Christmas was well on his way, bringing along thick layers of white snow, bright decorations, and merry tunes. He would bring gifts and laughter, family and cheer. For the first time all year, witches and wizards and muggles alike would all remember to cherish their loved ones, pulling even the most distant relatives into bone-crushing hugs and wishing them a merry holiday. Consciences would kick into full-gear and gifts would be given, solely for the purpose giving. People would be inexplicably happy, just like they had been the year before, and the year before that, and just like they would be every year to come.

But along with the trees and wreaths, Old Kris Kringle would bring the frigid winter air—air that bit at her pale skin, clawed at her round, red nose. Along with gifts and merriment, he would bring the painful memories of lost loved ones, and he would bring the torturous, taunting aromas of Christmas cooking: of roasts, of hams, of mash.

Her stomach gave an unpleasant purr, and she pressed the palm of her hand firmly to it, crinkling her brow. More and more often, her stomach seemed to scream its frustrations and hungry cries at her. It whined like a spoiled child deprived of his favourite toy, kicking and screaming and sobbing, but she, the red-faced parent, did her best to find distractions.

The let out a slow breath, bearing down on an already-agitated spot on the inside of her lower lip.

"Foooooooood," her stomach growled louder, pleading her for relief.

"No," she hissed.

She had always been proud and stubborn.

She slowly and gingerly pushed her body into a sitting position, eyeing the abandoned plate in front of her: the scraps of last night's dinner that someone had shoveled onto a plate and left on the floor for her, like some common cur. She felt her eyes narrowing in contempt for the plate, and for the wizard that had left it there. There it sat, watching her throughout the night, mocking her. It laughed as her body tensed with hunger pains, cackled as her stomach whined. The indistinguishable mass of hardly-edible scraps knew exactly how tempting it was, and reveled in its own appeal, enjoying her inner struggle.

She wanted it. Without a doubt, Ginny wanted to shove mouthful after mouthful down her throat and pacify the guttural rumbling in her torso. She wanted to swallow whatever pride she had left, whatever kept her from the plate. She wanted to submit to its will.

Carefully, she picked the plate up off the floor, momentarily transfixed by it. She couldn't help herself. She pinched a chunk of meat between her thumb and her forefinger, silently apologizing to herself before ravenously tearing off a hunk of it with her teeth. She hardly even chewed it before it slid down her throat and she tore off another. Even her own sudden self-loathing couldn't stop her: she tore hunk after hunk of what she could only assume was a leftover pork-chop and sucking what she could off of the bone before dropping it back onto the plate.

Merlin, she was weak.

With a sudden cry of anger and disgust, and with a sudden rush of adrenalin, Ginny hurled the plate across the room, relishing in the sound of it shattering against the opposite wall of her dark, dank prison.

But her stomach moaned in return, pulling another pained moan from her mouth.

Her elbows gave in underneath her weight and, utterly drained, she collapsed back onto her cot. She pressed her eyes closed, listening to the quickened hammering of her pulse in her ears. She sighed, glancing across at the opposite wall at the food which clung to the wall and dripped noisily to the ground. Even somewhat satiated by the protein, her body yearned for that food, even if it came from the soiled, stone floor. And if she had had the strength, she might have crawled across the floor and scooped up the discarded goop with her dirty hands.

She closed her eyes again, letting out another soft groan. The aching only got worse as the time passed, and the more often she gave in to it, the more often she forced herself to resist, simply restarting the torturous cycle.

She peeled her amber eyes back open, silently watching the faint fog of her spent air rise toward the ceiling.

There was no word for this. There simply wasn't one.

Ginny wasn't even angry anymore, and she was no longer afraid. She had been desensitized to anger and fear, and even sadness, from the very beginning, leaving her with little but contempt to dwell upon. The red-hot coals of loathing still burned in the pit of her stomach, driving her derision and defiance. They had tried to blow it out, but she still retained her fire.

In many ways, she was still strong.

She still fought them, every step of the way. She had long given-up on the hope for escape, even for rescue. She knew. She knew that she would rot in this hole, that she would be dead before anyone ever found her—but Ginny Weasley wouldn't go down without a bloody fight.

Once, she had been an athlete. She had been beautiful, fair, strong. And now, she was reduced to a wilting stem of a dead flower. Her arms and legs, pale and devoid of muscle, hung loosely from her center while her bones protruded offensively beneath her pallid skin. She had been through plenty of abuse: insulting slurs concerning her sex, her affiliation with muggles, and her family's reputation. She had lived through more sessions of torture than any other witch she had ever known. All she could do now was lie on the rickety cot they'd provided and stare daggers at the darkness. Now, her toes hung dangerously over the line between life and death, and she was simply waiting for one of them to shove her forward.

But Harry kept her upright, kept her gripping the earth with her feet. He didn't deserve the guilt any more than she deserved the death sentence.

According to Ministry protocol, Ginevra Molly Weasley would have been presumed dead six months after she was filed as 'missing.' Searching would have ceased. A memorial service would have been held. The Wizarding World would have mourned the loss of Harry Potter's wife-to-be and the best Chaser the Holyhead Harpies had ever seen, and slowly, one by one, each fan, each friend, and each member of her family would have given up on her. But if she knew him like she thought she did, Harry never would. Harry would keep looking. Convinced that her relationship with him was the cause of her disappearance, Harry would search on. Even with a trail that had gone cold just short of nine months ago, Harry would search for her until he either found Ginny or he found her body.

She owed it to him to put up a fight.

She had tried—she had tried so hard, and so many times—to escape. And she had come so close.

Her eyes narrowed into slits at the mere thought of escape: the thick drumming of her heart in her ears as she listened for unfriendly footsteps, the amazingly light sensation of hopeful anticipation as she fled, and then the sickeningly bitter taste of failure. She was anything but a compliant prisoner, reduced for a time to being chained to her cot, until her dwindling muscle mass rendered her just about as threatening as a pygmy puff.

Ginny glanced suddenly down at her wrist, the raised, white scar tissue just barely visible in the darkness. She had fought off these men for over a year—a year-and-a-half, now, with the approaching winter. Ginny was, and always had been, a fighter. And she would be a fighter until the day she died, however soon that day came. As much as she just wanted it to end, for death to sweep her into its warm embrace and carry her away from this ruddy place, Ginny wanted to prove her strength to herself even more.

A lock suddenly rattled, and her eyes flew toward the door.

She tried to push herself back up, but once again, she collapsed, pressing her eyes tightly shut in frustration. Someone had heard her plate shatter. Someone was coming to punish her for the disrespect she had shown to her host family. Her heartbeat quickened, her breath became ragged.

She listened rather than watched, trembling against the cold as the door swung open.

There was a moment of silence, then a sudden gasp and, "Malfoy... I think she's-"

"Faking," Draco said, clearly amused. "Nice nap, Weasley?"

The man behind him snorted.

"It was," she retorted, peeling her eyes back open to glare up at him. The callow git merely smirked, crossing his arms over his broad chest and stepping into her little prison. The pair of them had never been particularly friendly. Aside from the childish, conspicuous coughs of, "bouncing-ferret!" in the corridors at Hogwarts, the glares from across the Quidditch pitch, or the nicely-aimed Bat-Bogey hex in her fourth year, Ginny had very little intentional interaction with the graduated Slytherin. It was mutual, of course. She received the occasional, "blood-traitor," in response to her taunting and, thanks to Malfoy, she had been forced to dodge loads unnecessary bludgers during matches against Slytherin. And then, of course, there was the very correct assertion that she had sent Harry his Singing Valentine in her first year. But that was the extent of their relationship: cool disregard and occasional snide remarks. Draco Malfoy was a bully, but she never would have pegged him for a kidnapper. Amycus Carrow stood, leering, beside him. She felt her eyes suddenly twitch narrower at him. Amycus Carrow, whom she'd once been forced to call Professor in her sixth year, as he lewdly looked her up at down in the middle of Dark Arts class or as he issued the most degrading detentions she had even had the misfortune to serve.

She inhaled sharply, tightly pressing her lips together.

Malfoy stepped forward and squatted down in front of her, grey eyes narrow with what she assumed was scorn. "Get up," he ordered. Ginny didn't move, just stared at him, eyes smoldering with contempt. Malfoy's presence was a rare occurrence; if she did see him, it was only as he silently slammed a plate of food in front of her, or when he left her a rare change of clothes. He had once brought down an article from the Daily Prophet, detailing the Ministry's Missing Persons list, which no longer read her name. He was cruel to her, yes, but Draco Malfoy was the least of her worries; he didn't dare dirty his hands with filth like Ginny Weasley.

"I said get up!"

Once again, she remained still. "I would rather not."

He narrowed his eyes. He pursed his lips. He set his jaw. "You insolent little-"

"Hey, Malfoy. When you're done bickering with the little bint, maybe you ought to look around." His grey eyes rolled toward the ceiling as he stood back up, ready to retort. But the other man went on. "You know what this is?" Her honey gaze drifted toward Carrow: he knelt down on the floor, studying the remains of her dinner plate. She felt herself wince. Malfoy glanced over his shoulder and clicked his tongue at her.

"Mother will be very displeased," he drawled, grabbing her roughly by the arm and dragging her suddenly to her feet to look at her mess. "You think you're funny, don't you, Weaslette?" He released his grip on her and she fell dully into the mess below. He knelt down beside her, taking a handful of her copper hair and wrenching it upward, forcing her face to his. She involuntarily cried out, earning a triumphant smirk from him. "Oh, yes. You're incredibly funny." He released her hair and he and Carrow both returned to their feet, smirking down at her. "Clean up your own mess, Weasley."

She said nothing, and did not look back up at him, merely laying helplessly in the mess she had made. Without even having to look up, Ginny could see that arrogant expression on his pale, angled face: those thin lips, curled upward at the corners; that square jaw, set; those light brows, drawn and shielding a pair of cold, hard eyes.

"Go on, Weasley. Clean yourself up."

Normally, she might have snapped back at him—said something witty or clever enough to pacify his blatant love for conflict—but she didn't respond.

Malfoy, however, found her silence equally as amusing as any of her retorts would have been. "Given up, haven't you? That fire's finally gone out?" She could hear the smirk in his voice, and suddenly wished for the strength to slap it off of his smug face. "Come on, Weasley, for old time's sake," he took her chin, forcing her face back upward, "call me a toerag, a git. Give me a good excuse to use this on you," he hissed, running the tip of his wand from her temple to her jaw.

Her body gave a sudden shudder and she turned her head, wrenching her chin from his grasp. "Sod off, Malfoy," she said through a set of tightly clenched teeth. "And leave me the hell alone."

He glared at her, drawing his wand to her forehead. "That's what you want?" he teased, drawing circles in the air with the tip of his wand. "For us to, 'leave you the hell alone?'" He glanced over his shoulder at Carrow, who chuckled lightly at his interpretation of her voice. "And to think, we had such an extravagant surprise for her. She hardly deserves it." His icy eyes returned to her as he wordlessly sent a single pulse of pain through her body with his outstretched wand. Though her body involuntarily stiffened, she remained silent, simply glowering up at him. "Now get up, Weasley."

She didn't say a word, and nor did she move to fulfill his command.

"Come, now, Weasley. What ever would that blood-traitor mother of yours say if she could only see you now?"

Probably that I could use a second helping of supper, she thought to herself, the corners of her mouth suddenly curling upward. But her smile merely seemed to infuriate the young Malfoy.

"I told you to GET UP!"

"No," she said bravely, smiling to herself, proud of her defiance.

His brows shot up, his jaw fell slack, his lips parted. He stared at her incredulously. She waited to hear the familiar curse, to feel the sudden indescribable pain pulse through her once again. "You know, Carrow, I'm beginning to think that we shouldn't send the ungrateful, little wretch home."

"Home?" she whispered suddenly, her smile faltering.

"Home," he repeated.

She swallowed back the cold, hollow excitement rising in her throat, pursing her lips. What, exactly, was that supposed to mean? Very slowly, her glare faltered as well, only to be replaced by slow realization. "You're going to kill me," she said finally. Seeming to delight in the surprise on her freckled face, he merely lifted an eyebrow, smirking down at her.

So, today was the day. Cold relief washed through her, though the familiar, bitter taste of failure suddenly filled her mouth, turning the corners of her mouth downward.

"Go to hell, Mal-"

"Crucio!"

She didn't even have time to be surprised.

The pain erupted through her, and voluntary or not, a scream tore through her throat. She fell fully to the stone floor below and into her mess of discarded food scraps and broken plate, effectively cutting and slicing at her exposed flesh as the muscle spasms overcame her. She never even felt them. She was far too engrossed by the exploding, the ripping, and the burning pain that blasted through her. Malfoy didn't falter; the pain was consistent, never once slipping away enough for her to get a proper breath. She screamed until her throat was raw, and then she screamed some more. Her back arched off of the floor, tears streamed from her eyes, and steadily, she began to feel herself floating away. When her spent body could no longer take it, she went limp, the sight of Draco Malfoy's narrow, grey eyes fading into blackness.


	2. Damaged Goods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sixteen months after her kidnapping and her forcible incarceration, Ginny Weasley is found.

_Very carefully, she peeled her eyes open to assess the damage, but nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. Her jaw fell slack, her lips parted, her bright eyes widened. She peered through the mist, honey-coloured gaze dripping over the vision of white before her: the gentle curves, the neat folds, the soft silhouette. She was silent, suddenly unable to push air through her throat or form her lips into the shapes necessary for speech. At long last, the breath that had caught in her throat suddenly broke free, expelling itself in a trembling sigh._

" _You hate it."_

_Ginny pressed her lips closed again, but otherwise remained still, eyes trained forward. For a moment, one might have thought she hadn't heard the short, thin, balding wizard beside her. But then, "Maurice, it's… it's…"_

" _Horrible." He paused, letting out a dramatic sigh. "Oh, Miss Weasley, I am so sorr-"_

" _No," she breathed as a smile crawled onto her mouth. "It's beautiful." Through her peripherals, she saw him crack a smile, but her focus remained forward on her tear-blurring reflection. Her straight, athletic form had been transformed: her bust appeared larger, her waist thinner, her hips rounder. He placed his hands delicately upon her hips, smoothing a wrinkle that she couldn't see._

 " _The veil isn't too much?"_

 _Her eyes flickered upward toward her face, half-covered by a modest birdcage veil. It was suddenly no wonder why the wizard's enchanted measuring tape had so meticulously measured her face; the veil stopped very strategically upon her cheek, stiffly draping over one eye and crossing carefully over the opposite eyebrow. She never would have suggested it, or even picked it out of_ Witch Weddings _magazine, but now that she saw it on herself, she knew that it was the right decision. Very gently, she shook her head once: to the left, to the right, then back to centre, never once breaking eye contact with her reflection. "It's perfect," she whispered, her eyes dropping back down to the gown. It fit wonderfully; tightly around her torso and hips and draped freely, with more volume, at her legs. "It's… perfect," she said again, breaking into a grin and finally tearing her eyes away from herself. She turned to the wizard beside her, impulsively throwing her arms around him and pulling him into a tight embrace._

_She could hear him chuckle into her ear before setting his hands on her bare, freckled shoulders and holding her out at arm's length. "Careful, dear," he said, inspecting his work to be sure that she hadn't unnecessarily mussed his masterpiece. He knelt down, fussing silently over the folds of volume at her knees as she turned her head sideways to grin at herself in the mirror._

" _Harry's going to love it, you know," she found herself saying._

" _Undoubtedly," the wizard responded almost absently, a few pins bobbing from between his lips as he repositioned the fabric around her legs and secured it with a pin. Seemingly pleased with himself, he stood back up, removing the pins from his mouth and sending them zooming across the room into a red pincushion. He smiled at Ginny in the mirror, setting his hands upon her shoulders again. "You really do look very beautiful, Miss Weasley," he assured her._

 _She looked over her shoulder at him. "Thanks to you, Maurice."_  

_His eyebrows twitched upward, and his lips curled into something of a smirk. "You flatter me, Miss Weasley. But really, I merely sewed the fabric—you're the one that fills it out. No enchantments, even."_

_Turning her head to look at herself again, Ginny's eyes pinched in skeptical disbelief. "You're mad."_

_But the wizard merely smiled at her and shook his round head. "Well, that I may be, but I assure you, Miss Weasley-"_

" _Please, it's Ginny."_

 _He chuckled, but acquiesced. "Then,_ Ginny _, what did you think the final fitting was for? Simply for our enjoyment?" She merely let out a breathy laugh before pursing her lips in an attempt to ease the ache of over-stimulation in her cheeks. "It really has been an honor, Miss Weasley. That Harry Potter is a lucky wizard," she opened her mouth to object, but he continued, "and I wish the pair of you a lifetime of happiness."_

_Ginny's smile fell away and she turned toward the older wizard once again. "You'll be attending the ceremony, won't you? You know you're more than welcome."_

" _As is the rest of the Wizarding world," he said with a chuckle before he lowered his eyes. "But no, unfortunately, Mother has taken ill again. I'll be leaving for_ Balazuc _the day after next."_ Balazuc _, she thought absently. That explained the very slight French twinge to his speech. "Flora will be delivering your gown to your mother the day before the ceremony." Flora was something like Maurice's apprentice—just a year or two younger than Ginny and fresh out of Hogwarts. Ginny only vaguely remembered her from school: one of a pair of identical mousy, Slytherin, twin girls in Professor Slughorn's lauded 'Slug Club.' Both then and now, the girl pointedly avoided her eyes._

_Though a little disappointed by the news, Ginny bobbed her head up and down in a gentle nod. "Of course," she said gently, offering the gown-maker a smile. "And send mine and Harry's condolences to your mother, won't you?"_

_He grinned. "She'll be glad to accept them, I'm sure."_

_Ginny spent the remainder of her short appointment making a futile effort to delicately remove her gown. Maurice, mumbling something about what a shame it would be for his work to be 'ripped off of the glowing bride,' offered his assistance. Once she was safely back into her own clothes, Ginny confirmed the date and time for the dress' delivery with the quiet Flora, offered a twin pair of hurried and grateful good-byes, and left the shop._

_Walking briskly through the crowded, cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, she rummaged through the pocket of her cobalt robes and extracted a sad, crumpled to-do list. She had been to her final fitting: that was done. And now she had little more than half-an-hour to meet her mother at the flower shop in London. This - dressing herself, choosing flowers - was far from her forte, but a bride's work was never done, she supposed. She pocketed the list with a sigh, looking up._

_She saw the cloaked body hardly a second before she hit it, hard._

_The impact was significant enough to make her stumble, but she caught herself before she fell. "I'm so sorry," she said, glancing up into the kind, grey eyes of an elderly wizard. "I wasn't looking. It was my-"_

_The old man merely smiled at her, apparently unfazed by her unintentional assault. "Not at all, Ginevra," he said in a voice that matched his eyes and his smile._

_Even so, her brow knitted in a mixture of surprise and confusion. No one, not even her own mother, called her that—the name had faded into oblivion shortly after her birth and had only reemerged on incidents like her sixth birthday, when she had proudly strode into the kitchen holding one of two pigtails that had, only moments earlier, been tied on the back of her head. "I'm sorry," she said slowly, "but do I know you?"_  

" _I doubt it," he chuckled, shaking his head and gesturing to a faded green-and-gold poster hanging in a nearby shop window. Ginny inclined her head, watching as she and her six teammates formed a line, grinned and waved from it, and then began weaving around on their brooms in an intricate pattern before returning to their line-up. "But my granddaughter is your biggest fan." Merlin, she would have to get used to that—one would think that after three years of dating the most famous man in the Wizarding World, and after two years of playing Quidditch with the Holyhead Harpies, she would be used to people not only recognising her, but knowing intimate details about her life. And yet, it never ceased to surprise her._

_Though with significantly pinker cheeks, Ginny grinned at him. "Oh, is that so?" she asked, in an attempt to cover her surprise. "A-and how old is your granddaughter?"_

" _Seven this January," he said thoughtfully, before allowing a smile to creep back onto his thin lips. "Tells me that she wants to be just like you someday."_

 _Flattered, Ginny let out a soft chuckle. "Well, that's very sweet-"_  

" _You don't happen to have a quill on you, do you? Little Veronica would be livid if I didn't ask you for your autograph."_

  _She felt through her robes, knowing that there was no quill there. "I'm sorry, I don't think I do."_

" _Blast," he mumbled, rummaging through the pockets of his own robes. He pulled out a spare bit of parchment, but kept fussing for a quill. A moment or so later, he found one, brandishing it proudly. It was bent, most likely from having been stored in a pocket, and apparently well-used. "If you wouldn't mind, Miss Weasley?" he asked hopefully, holding out the parchment and the quill. "It would mean the world to her."_

 _Ginny glanced quickly at her watch; her next appointment was drawing near—and her mother would be furious if she was late, again—but, deciding that she couldn't very well ignore the old wizard's request, she nodded her head, taking the parchment and quill and moving off to the side. The old man followed closely behind. "You said her name was Veronica?" she asked, setting the parchment onto the brick side of the alley to write upon it._  

" _Yes," the old man said excitedly. "V-E-R-O-N- Yes, that's it."_

_She scribbled out a short, inspirational message onto the small bit of parchment, signed it with her swooping, illegible signature, and turned back around to return the message and the quill to the old man. "Here you-" But when she turned around, his kind smile had disappeared. A cold, cruel smirk took its place, and Ginny involuntarily stiffened. "I'm sorry, but-"_

" _Take a step back, Miss Weasley," he said darkly, aiming a long, black wand at her, partially concealed by his sleeve. She remained still, her brow pinching forward and her eyes narrowing. "Back, into the alley, if you would." She lifted her gaze to the witches and wizards that traipsed through Diagon Alley, but his eyes became suddenly colder. "_ Now _."_

_It all happened so fast._

_Just as Ginny moved to fetch her wand, there was a flash of red. She cried out, ducking just in time for it to whiz over her head before another flash shot toward her. With the swiftness of a professional Chaser, she dived out of its path, too, and drew her own wand, raising an invisible defensive shield, effectively blocking a third red flash. She didn't have time to fire any offensive spells—before she even knew it was happening, her wand flew out of her hand and she was staring, defenseless, at a white beam of light. The spell hit and threw Ginny to the ground, knocking the air painfully out of her lungs. She sputtered, pushing her body upright, amber eyes desperately searching. She dived for her discarded wand, only a metre away, but with the speed that no man his age could possibly possess, the old wizard snatched it up. Breathing raggedly, Ginny backed away, her eyes locked on her wand._

" _Hazel, isn't it?" the man said slowly, examining its twisted hilt. She didn't say anything, pursing her lips tightly and inhaling shakily through her nose. He lifted his grey eyes for a moment, as if to gauge her reaction before taking the tip in his other hand and, with surprising ease, snapping it into two pieces. Her lips parted and her breath caught; a cold sort of helplessness dropped into the pit of her stomach. She watched through a pair of wide eyes as he tossed the useless pieces to the side. "Now," he said. "Stand up."_

_He had trained his wand on her again, and, very slowly, Ginny pushed herself to her feet, earning a bit of a smirk from the older man._

_He took a sudden, spry step forward, and she took one back. He lifted his nose, laughing at her as she moved away. But as she looked toward the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, the old man's eyes narrowed and his lips curled upward into a sickening smile. Her eyes flickering back and forth momentarily between the elderly wizard and the mouth of the alley, Ginny bolted. But she didn't make it very far. "Get her!" someone shouted, and a large hand curled suddenly and roughly around her wrist, yanking her back. She threw her fists toward the unseen assailant, but he wrapped a thick arm around her chest, pinning her elbows securely to her sides, and squeezed a large hand around her throat. She struggled against him, screaming past his tightening grip until she could no longer force air through her windpipe. She fell silent—save for the pitiful choking sound—and squeezed her eyes closed, trying desperately to draw in air._

_A familiar voice chuckled, clearly amused, and she opened her eyes to find its owner smirking at her. She tried to communicate her desperation, but he would have none of it. "Conceited, little bint," the old man mumbled to himself, shaking his head. He stepped toward her, his eyes narrowing as he approached. For a moment, he simply let her struggle. She thought that he might actually let the brute squeeze the life out of her, until he lifted his gaze to meet her captor's. "We need her alive."_

_Air filled her lungs in alarming, and even painful, quantities, but she took them in anyways, coughing desperately to expel what she drew in excess. Even before Ginny managed to steady her breathing, she wrenched against her captor's grasp, but this merely seemed to amuse him. She could feel the warm air from his chuckle against her neck, moving the little hairs that had fallen out of her ponytail. "Let go-!" she screamed hoarsely, but the old man suddenly pressed a firm hand over her mouth, muffling her cry._

" _It would be wise to keep that pretty, little mouth of yours shut."_

_She screamed in vain against the old man's hand, twisting and thrashing against the arm that had incapacitated her. Suddenly, her shouts disappeared, and so did the man's hand. Startled, Ginny opened her eyes again, only to see a pleased-looking old wizard pointing his wand at her. She snarled at him, hurling a myriad of silent swears in his direction and earning only a smirk, which served merely to redden her freckled cheeks._

_Her heart hammering painfully in her ears, Ginny set her jaw. With all of the strength that she could muster, she kicked her foot backward—and she connected. There was a sickening crack and a low howl of pain, but the arm around her slackened just enough for her to wrench free of its grasp. Without a second thought, she made a break for Diagon Alley, running as fast as her thick, athletic legs would take her._

_She had broken free! And unscathed, too. Her breath came in shallow, ragged puffs and she could feel her lungs burning with the effort, but Ginny pushed on, toward her freedom, her cobalt robes streaking through the air behind her. She was almost there, she was-_

_She was on the ground again. For a split second, she didn't know how she got there, but then she felt it. Her body twisted against the sudden explosion within her and she screamed in silent agony. She twisted and squirmed, her soundless shouts peeling through her throat as naturally and easily as a sigh. And then finally, all at once, it disappeared. Ginny collapsed into a pitiful heap, drenched in sweat, gasping for breath. She peeled her eyes open, looking toward Diagon Alley, not three metres away._

_Children still pressed their noses to shop windows, witches still rummaged through their bags to display their purchases to wizards that shrugged their indifferences. Nothing had changed. No one had even noticed her. They had spelled it. They had to have. She had caused far too much commotion not to have drawn attention._

_There was a sudden, sharp impact at her side, and she recoiled, clutching her abdomen. "Now, that wasn't very polite, Miss Weasley." She could feel the smirk on the old wizard's face as he watched her, and she clenched her teeth, swallowing back the whimper that threatened to nudge its way past her larynx. She inhaled sharply, gingerly nursing her aching side, and rolled onto her back to sit herself up, but this only resulted in being thrown back down to the ground with a second sharp blow. Her body instinctively curled around her middle and she squeezed her eyes shut, releasing a quiet, low breath that, without the Silencing Charm, ought to have been a groan. "Fiery little minx, aren't you?" he hissed, slowly kneeling beside her. At first, she didn't acknowledge him, but as she heard that familiar, nauseating chuckle, she opened her eyes again. She glared up at him, spitting hard at his straight, white smile. His chuckle turned suddenly cold with disdain as he grabbed her roughly by the collar of her robes, lifting her upper body painfully off of the ground. "You'll regret that, Weaslette," he hissed, wiping her saliva off of his chin with his other hand._  Weaslette. _Her glare remained intact, her bright eyes uncharacteristically dark, but they were betrayed by the rest of her features. Ginny had always worn her feelings on her spotted, freckled face; and fear, it seemed, was no exception._

_She heard the pop before she felt the familiar sensation, as though her body was being squeezed through a tight tube._

_Her heart sank._

* * *

 

She was trembling. She could feel the sharp sort of tenseness in her chest as she drew an involuntarily shaking breath into her stiff lungs, a suffocating tightness gripping the back of her throat as her body clung helplessly to its coverings. Despite them, the frigid air nipped at her cheeks, pinching at and prodding any and all of her that it could reach with its sharp claws. Her nose instinctively crinkled, drawing in another reluctant breath as the centers over her eyebrows turned downward.

She was just now beginning to recognize the aromas: something savory and smooth in the distance, and something much sharper, much crisper nearby. She exhaled slowly, releasing with her air a soft sound. A sharp intake of breath somewhere nearby responded, followed shortly by a dull, jumbled series of sounds that she couldn't quite decipher. A second voice, louder and more impatient, gave a short, hurried command that she could not understand, and she felt her head drop heavily backward.

She knew this feeling, this helpless inability to decipher sounds, to recognize sensations, to control her body. It was painfully familiar. _It's very boring,_ he had said, _having to listen to the silly, little troubles of an eleven-year-old girl._ He had gone on, and although she fought with all her might, she had slipped too far down to hear it.

Her heart was thumping steadily in her ears. Her breath came and went without her influence. She was bobbing, just slightly, in time with the stiff crunching beneath her. Was she… being carried? If she was, it didn't last for long. Shortly after she recognized the sensation, the weightlessness vanished, and she hit (what she could only assume was) the ground with a noisy, hollow, thump. She may have groaned again; she couldn't tell.

Three sharp raps on wood. Those, she recognized.

The sound tore her mind from within itself and she became suddenly very aware of her surroundings: clucks of faraway chickens, the pleasant scent of a nearby fire, the distinctly ominous presence of someone above her. She winced as two sudden bangs filled her ears, like the backfire of her father's old muggle car, somewhere in her distant memory. The realization was delayed, but it soon came, along with the cold, distant silence of solitude. The solitude made her that much more aware of her body, but the more aware she became of herself, the more she began to recognize pain; pain that grew worse with every passing second. The gnawing emptiness in her abdomen, the sore stiffness that tensed her muscles. She groaned aloud this time, crinkling her nose again—this time of her own accord.

A sudden, familiar hinge-squeak filled her ears, but she winced away, unable (and perhaps unwilling) to open her eyes to see what made it. She could, however, identify a sharp intake of breath above her, a gentle "no," and the rustling of robes as a person knelt down beside her. She could feel the person brush away the hair that she hadn't realized had fallen over her face. "No," the person said again, suddenly much more desperately. "Ginny?"

She didn't respond, but not for the lack of trying. She was surprised by how difficult it was simply to offer the man—she could tell by now that the speaker was a man—a gentle groan. Perhaps he recognized her effort. He knelt beside her, breathing just as shakily as she did, and he took her frozen cheeks into his warm hands.

"Oh, Merlin," he whispered. "Gin, I… Gods, y-you're freezing."

This was almost _too_ familiar for her liking.

It couldn't have been much more than ten years ago; once more, she had been unconscious and only vaguely aware, unable to move as a hesitant hand grasped at her cold skin. _Ginny! Ginny - don't be dead_ , the same voice had said, in the same desperate manner that it spoke to her in now. _Please don't be dead._

Gently, more gently than she recalled ever being touched before, the man brushed some hair away from her neck before pressing a firm pair of fingers to her throat in what she guessed was an attempt to gauge her pulse. She wanted nothing more than to peel her eyes back open, to gaze up into that face that she was certain she knew, but that she couldn't seem to remember. "Someone, get down here!" She winced against his sudden shouts, clenching her jaw and squeezing her eyes closed. "Gin?" the man seemed to beg. "Can you hear me? O-open your eyes, Gin." His words were tense. "I need you t-to open your eyes."

With surprising ease, her eyes gently flickered open, but then immediately snapped back closed again, squeezed tight against the brightness that assaulted them.

"No, Gin," the man breathed, his voice hardly a whisper as his thumb made gentle circles on her cheekbone. "Look at me. Let me know you're in there." She squinted against the cold, bright sun, managing another groan of discomfort. "There you go." One of the man's hands found one of hers and grasped tightly onto it. It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the harsh light around her, but slowly, a pair of bright green eyes, encircled by a pair of round-rimmed glasses, faded into view.

Her brow knitted up as she focused on the familiar face before her. His eyes were swimming in tears that threatened to fall over his lower lids and his pale, gaunt cheeks were covered with uncharacteristic scruff. "Harry?" her voice came out as little more than a breath, but he melted as it burst weakly from her sore throat.

"I'm here," he assured her, tightening the grip on her cheek and her hand as something between a grimace and a smile tugged at his lips. "I'm here, Ginny." She gave his hand a gentle squeeze as well, and he let out a slow sigh in response.

There was a distinct shuffling behind him, but Harry didn't turn to address it. "Harry, what-?"

"I need you to find Kingsley. Tell him to meet me at St. Mungo's, right now," he said surprisingly evenly, his eyes still securely glued to hers.

There was a brief moment of silence, then a trembling question. "I-is that-?" the newcomer began.

"Now, Ron!" This time, there was no hesitation. Ron disappeared with a loud _pop!_ and Harry's gaze softened once more. Carefully, and almost hesitantly, he scooped an arm under her shoulders and lifted her, a little painfully, to his chest. "We're going to get you to the hospital," he promised her. "You're going to be just fine." She parted her trembling lips to object—she was never one to take an unnecessary trip to the hospital—but the frigid air had frozen her voice box, rendering her vocal chords useless. "Don't," he said softly, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

She relaxed against him, allowing her eyes to slide closed again.

"Everything's going to be fine," Harry repeated, a little more to himself than to her.

She didn't respond, she didn't know if she could. His crisp scent was almost overwhelming.

"Ginny?" he asked, much further away. She could feel him shift; she could hear his panicked voice calling something out, but she couldn't quite comprehend it. She succumbed to the oncoming blackness, the silence, safely tucked away in her fiancé's arms.


	3. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry learns some troubling news when he admits Ginny to St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and reflects upon his time without her.

Well, he certainly had never expected anything like this. Granted, he hadn't exactly known what he might have expected, but whatever it was, it wasn't this.

He leaned forward, supporting his weight by his elbows, his head hanging loosely between his knees. He had imagined this scenario hundreds of times: he had seen the lively red-head in his mind's eye, throwing herself into his embrace and snaking her arms around his neck, as she always had; he had seen her grinning up at him with those warm, golden eyes as he took her hypothetical face in his hypothetical hands, bruising her hypothetical lips with a hypothetical kiss. But Harry had never imagined finding her helplessly clinging to consciousness, or seeing resignation in those eyes, or feeling the chilling, determined terror that crept up his spine as he waited to hear whether or not she would be all right.

"Harry?"

He stiffened and his head snapped up with equal parts fear and hope that a mediwitch stood in the doorway to bring him news. Instead, he met Hermione's wide, reddened eyes, and he swallowed. He got stiffly to his feet, sluggishly wrapping his arms around her as she raced forward, throwing her arms around his waist. He placed his chin on top of her head, watching silently as Ron strode in behind her, hunched and sullen.

"How is she?" he said in a low voice.

Harry just swallowed again and shook his head as Hermione made a soft sound against his chest. "No idea." Ron's expression remained unchanged, but he lowered his pale, blue eyes to the floor. "Is your mum on her way?"

His eyes darted back up again to meet Harry's for a moment before he nodded his head. "She's writing Charlie. Dad's flooing Bill and George." He paused for a moment, looking over his shoulder and through the door as if he expected his entire family to bustle through behind him. "Wouldn't be surprised if Percy's already heard at the Ministry."

Harry frowned. "I wouldn't be surprised if half the Wizarding World had heard, by now." Ron's jaw tightened at his mate's comment, but he nodded his head nonetheless.

Hermione took the opportunity to suddenly pull away, her cheeks soaked in new tears and her trembling hands upon Harry's shoulders. "She's going to be okay, Harry," she said, a little less confidently than she probably intended. When she realized the wavering of her voice, she persisted. "She _has_ to be okay."

He could only hope that Hermione was right.

It was hours before they got word on Ginny's condition, by which time, all of the Weasleys—even Charlie, dressed in haggard, fire-charred robes—had appeared. The whole lot, normally high-spirited and rambunctious, was remarkably silent, aside from the occasional muffled sob from Mrs Weasley or whispered question from Bill's toddler daughter, Victoire. There was palpable tension in the air when the lime-green-clad mediwitch appeared, her dark eyes wide with surprise at the turn-out for her patient. Nearly a dozen pairs of eyes, various shades of blues and browns, as well as Harry's emeralds, shot toward her in unison, and nearly a dozen pairs of lungs sucked in simultaneous breaths.

The witch parted her plump lips, her gaze shifting uncomfortably through the small crowd. "Although Miss Weasley is severely malnourished and dehydrated," she said slowly, "we feel that her condition is stable." She paused, before offering them all a small smile. "She's going to be alright."

There was a collective sigh of relief through the now-crowded waiting room.

"When can we see her?" Mrs Weasley asked, standing suddenly, a polka-dotted handkerchief clasped tightly in the anxious fist in front of her mouth.

"Well, she's been sedated," the young woman explained, finally able to settle her gaze upon a single Weasley, "but she's stable. I suppose I can take you to her now, if you'd like." Mrs Weasley gave a choked cry, hiding her smile behind her handkerchief and nodding her head up and down. Hermione jumped to her feet, pulling Ron up beside her; Bill hitched his excitedly whispering daughter up onto his hip, moving to stand beside his mother and his father. The mediwitch took a small step back, her eyes wide with surprise as the hoard rose. She feigned a pleasant smile, spun around with her clipboard pressed to her chest, and led each of the teary-eyed family members out of the waiting room.

But Harry remained behind, staring blankly after the retreating Weasleys.

He sucked in a slow breath and he held it, quickly removing his glasses and pressing the heels of his hands into his stinging eyes. Ginny was alive, and she was stable; that was enough for him. Beneath his palms, he could feel his stifled tears welling up behind his eyelids; he heard his throat release an involuntarily trembling breath.

Was it really enough?

Never, in all the years that he had known her, had he ever seen Ginny Weasley look so helpless. He had watched her grow from a timid little girl, constantly knocking things over when he walked into a room, into the vibrant, feisty young woman that he had fallen so deeply in love with. He pressed his hands even jmore firmly to his eyes, sucking in another breath at the mere thought of her absence, the cold panic that had nearly squeezed the life out of him night after long night as he combed through her file. He had imagined thousands of possible scenarios, dreamt thousands of nightmares about what might have been happening to her. For the past sixteen months, Harry had searched for Ginny, desperately hoping to find her alive, never once giving up hope. Even when the Ministry pronounced her dead, when they erected a tombstone in the Weasley plot beside Fred's, and while the rest of the Wizarding World tried to move on, Harry had kept looking. And although his chest swelled with relief at her return, finding her crumpled upon the front porch of the Burrow was somehow less than satisfying. There had been no brilliant rescue, and perhaps more dishearteningly, her captor was still out there, as free as any predatory bird.

It was only Ginny's urgent need for medical assistance that had stopped him from scouring the Burrow and its surrounding property for her kidnapper, for clues, for _anything_. Ginny was in no shape to have escaped. She had toed the dangerous line between life and death, he had seen it in her eyes. And instead, Kingsley had sent a team of the Ministry's most skilled Aurors (obviously excluding himself and Ron) to do just that. More than anything, Harry wanted to be out there. Even to think it was selfish, and he knew it, but he owed it to Ginny to have her captor behind bars in Azkaban before she woke up—didn't he? She had survived her ordeal, and she deserved justice.

"Mr Potter?"

He looked up from his hands, momentarily alarmed by the blurred image of a woman in green before him. He silently chastised himself, placing his glasses back on his nose and peering back up at the same mediwitch that had led the Weasleys away. He stood, running a nervous hand through his already-askew hair. "I-is everything alright? Is Ginny-?"

"She's fine, Mr Potter," the mediwitch said kindly, though she wore concern on her oval face.

"Th-then what is it?"

She seemed to hesitate, dropping her gaze back down to her clipboard. "Well, it says here that you were appointed Miss Weasley's next-of-kin shortly before her disappearance-" _Y_ _es_ , he thought to himself, _just one more premature bit of paperwork I insisted we sign before the wedding_ , "and as such, we thought there was something that you, and you alone, should know about her condition."

His breath caught. "But, I thought you said she would be fine-"

"And, physically, she will be," she said, glancing briefly up at him before once again casting her gaze downward, "but, well…" She paused, chewing at her lip again as her dark eyes scanned over Ginny's medical file. When she continued, it was in a well-rehearsed, sympathetic tone. "Upon examination, Healers found evidence of scarring and bruising to the patient's pelvic area, consistent with that of," she lifted her eyes back up to meet Harry's. She continued cautiously, as though wading through very dangerous waters. "The trauma that was observed indicates repeated sexual abuse, Mr Potter."

Whatever breath had been caught in his throat suddenly broke free, and whatever tears he had been holding back suddenly filled his eyes. His knees felt unstable beneath him, he had to sit—or rather, collapse—onto his seat, consciously taking in a slow, trembling breath. It shouldn't have come as such a surprise to him—in so many of his nightmares, Ginny had writhed beneath the weight of countless burly men, screaming for Harry to help her.

But this wasn't a nightmare. This was real. And he had let her down.

He swallowed, biting down hard on the inside of his lip in a valiant effort to keep himself calm. He peeled his white-knuckled hands off of his knees, wrapping them instead around the arms of his chair to push himself back up onto his feet. "Where is she?" he asked as evenly as he could manage.

"We've admitted her into the Intensive Care Wing, where she can be properly monitored."

"Where – _is_ – she?" he repeated, much more darkly.

The witch watched him for a brief moment, as though worried he might throw his fist through a wall, but nodded her head. "Her room is this way," she said quietly, turning around to lead him to it. Harry followed in silence, his hands squeezed into tight fists at his sides.

Somewhere in his mind, he had to have known. Like some idealistic fool, he had simply pushed that fear away whenever it had reared its ugly head. For sixteen months, he had allowed his best friend's sister, his fiancée, to be _abused_ by some monster. He had subjected her to that. He clenched his jaw, just barely prevailing over the urge to fall to the ground and scream, focusing all of his energy on calmly following the mediwitch into the lift and through the hall. She finally stopped in front of a closed door, the numbers 416 painted onto the front of it, and turned back around to look at him. "For the purpose of discretion," she said quietly, gesturing to the name _Marlow Barnes_ shimmering just beneath the numbers. His eyes narrowed in confusion at first, but as she opened the door, he met a teary sea of blue and brown eyes, and his confusion was immediately forgotten.

Each of the eight conscious Weasleys (and the single Granger) surrounded the small, white bed upon which Ginny lay, unconscious. One of her thin hands was squeezed between Mrs Weasley's, the other between Hermione's. Harry stepped forward into the small room, his bright eyes settling upon Ginny— _his_ Ginny.

Harry was a good Auror: he had heard horror story after horror story, he had held witches' hands while they described their own traumas to him with unyielding composure. But suddenly, his composure fell away. Today, Harry wasn't an Auror; he was just another victim's loved one.

He crumpled to his knees beside Hermione and, desperate just to touch her, to let her know he was there, he reached out and curled his fingers around Ginny's thin forearm. He heard a pitiful sob and lifted his eyes to find its source, but found only a pair of pursed, downturned lips on Mr Weasley's empathetic face. He inhaled sharply, dropping his gaze once more to Ginny. Her bright, speckled skin was ghostly pale beneath the clinical, fluorescent lights that hung above them, and her toned, athletic body was unrecognizably frail beneath the stiff, white sheets and lime-green hospital gown—yet, she had never looked so beautiful.

It had been exactly sixteen months, one week, and, if he hadn't miscounted, three days since he had last laid his eyes upon Ginny Weasley. He had woken up to find her already out of bed on the morning of August the fourth, but the alluring scent of sizzling bacon had made up for her absence. He had crawled groggily from their shared bed, balancing his glasses on his nose and pulling on a pair of discarded pants before descending the stairs and stepping into the kitchen. She had been at the stove, clumsily scooting a pair of fried eggs onto a plate in one of his old Chudley Canons t-shirts that only just hid her black knickers. He had grinned at her back, carefully catching her around the waist and pressing a kiss to her neck. "Gwenog will have your head if she sees you wearing that," he had said against her skin, and she had rolled her eyes at him, lifting her free hand to hold him in place while she turned her head to kiss his cheek. It had been an average morning, unspectacular but pleasant: he had made a joke that she hadn't inherited any of her mother's cooking skills, and she had countered by charging him to cook the next day's breakfast. And then, half-way through the meal, Ginny had noticed the clock: she had swallowed down what was left of her food, gulped down the rest of her tea, and rushed upstairs to change for her appointments in Diagon Alley—something about the wedding plans, he had absently recalled her saying. Shamelessly, he had watched her climb the stairs, smiling broadly at her retreating rump, and, just like every other morning, had remained at the table, eyeing _The Daily Prophet_ with mild disinterest. When Ginny had returned, she had given him a quick peck on the mouth and a hurried apology before climbing into the fireplace and disappearing in a swarm of green flames.

Harry never would have thought that that hasty kiss would have been his last, or that he would spend the next several months desperately searching for the girl that had given it to him.

There was another sob, but this time, Harry didn't need to look up. He knew it had come from his own mouth, and the reassuring hand upon his shoulder and the sudden wetness upon his cheeks merely acted as confirmation.

 


	4. Family Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When confronted with his mother's fears of retribution from Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy must convince her of the validity of his decision to let Ginny Weasley survive.

He leaned back, eyes trained upon fire in the hearth. His cool gaze had smothered the flame into submission, and all that remained now was the calmly smouldering log. It provided little light, but he preferred the darkness. It did wonders for his nerves. And Merlin knew he needed that. He lifted his crystalline glass to his thin lips, hesitating for only a moment before draining it of its contents. The amber liquid didn't go without a fight; it clawed and scraped the whole way down, but his face remained hard. His eyes remained narrow in thought – or perhaps the deliberate absence of thought – and though his body was still, his heart hammered painfully in his ears. It was a continuous reminder, a peevish sort of warning alarm that he couldn't stifle.

That had been far too close for his liking. And Carrow was a right buffoon – he'd have gotten them both caught.

With a flick of his wand, his glass refilled itself. He lifted it to his lips and ventured another sip.

"Thirsty?"

He grunted indiscriminately in his father's direction.

It had been hours, and the Wizarding World was sure to be abuzz with rumour after rumour about the Weasley girl: she'd gotten cold feet or she'd gone into hiding – the same meaningless swill that had circulated shortly after her disappearance. And Potter would be fucking elated, he was sure.

Draco blew an ironic chuckle through his nose.

He would be elated, all right, until he saw the state of his little trollop. She had left as a minx and now returned a flobberworm. Draco had never been the least bit interested, but he would have been a fool not to recognize the appeal: bright eyes, fiery spirit, toned physique. Without the crimson hair and the splattering of freckles, the Weasley girl might have been half-way decent to look at. But the light had disappeared from her eyes, her spirit had been broken, and her enticing figure had withered. Perhaps Potter wouldn't recognize her – or better yet, accuse her of being an imposter. The corners of his lips twitched upward as he lifted his glass for yet another sip. Now, wouldn't that have been a right kick to the bollocks? But Potter's capacity for empathy was overwhelming. He would nurse the girl back to health himself, if he had to. Then he would marry her, the way Draco was certain he had fantasized over and over in that over-sized head of his; he would father her children, and the pair of them would live their fairy-tale lives until the day they died of old age. That was how fate had planned it out for the great Harry Potter.

Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, would remain in his library, silently staring at a dying fire, and drink his nerves away with his father.

"What – have – you – done?"

Or, perhaps, they would be interrupted.

"Can I help you, Mother?"

She didn't even seem to hear him. "You've ruined us," she said, in a low, sharp whisper, throwing down a copy of the morning's newspaper. An old photograph of Ginny Weasley – shortly after a match, if her dishevelled hair and sweat-stained Quidditch robes were any indication – stared up at him.

"We aren't ruined, 'Cissa," Lucius said calmly, but she did not relent.

"We are!" Draco saw her throw her arms up in a rare display of petulance and quirked an eyebrow. "Everything we've built, Draco, everything we've worked so hard to regain-"

"You're over-reacting," he muttered.

She grew very still and he could feel her eyes narrow, though he never lifted his from the hearth. "I'm over-reacting?" she said darkly, stepping forward. "Ginny Weasley is _alive_ , Draco."

"Yes, Mother, she is."

"And you don't see any problem with that?"

"Hardly."

She scoffed. "That tune will change, Draco. Mark my words." But he didn't mark them. He let them drift into one ear, and straight back out the other. "The moment Potter puts her in front of the Wizengamot, we're all finished. They'll toss us right back into Azkaban." There was a short pause, during which he could feel the silent exchange between his parents. It was merely a brief moment of eye contact, but it was terribly palpable. "You remember Azkaban, don't you?"

More than he cared to admit, actually. After the war had ended, he (along with countless others, his parents included) had spent—what had they told him, a week?—in a dingy, cramped cell. It certainly hadn't felt like any week he'd lived through before. Time seemed to cease in that cell; seconds lazily rolled into stubborn minutes, but they felt like hours and days. And when his trial finally came, he'd had little more than his word to go on. It was Saint Potter that had stepped forward on his, his mother's, and his father's behalves, earning them each a pardon and a measly two-year probation period. Weasley had been sure to remind him of her fiancé and his act of charity whenever he'd brought her meals or escorted her to a rare bath. Draco lifted his glass, but before he could take that satisfying swig, Narcissa snatched it out of his hand. His eyebrows twitched upward and he threw her an impressed glance before adding, "take it. You seem to need it more than I do."

"This is not the time," she hissed, slamming the glass onto the side-table and halting her husband's low, amused chuckle.

"On the contrary," Draco said as he gave a very feline roll of his shoulders, "the timing could not be more ideal."

"Draco-!"

He pushed himself to his feet and took the older woman's jaw in his hand. Her eyes were uncharacteristically glassy, her cheeks unusually pink. "I've taken care of it," he said quietly, running one thumb over one dry cheekbone. "Trust me."

She fell silent for a long moment, surveying him as carefully as if he had suddenly sprouted wings and suggested they elope. He held her gaze – steely grey eyes boring into pale blues – until she relaxed against his touch and, finally, closed her eyes. She released a slow, steady stream of air, and peeled her eyes back open. Her voice shook, but little more than hesitant confusion played on her pale, angular face. "You've… taken care of it?" she repeated, searching his eyes.

He nodded, slowly and deliberately.

She pursed her lips with mild exasperation. "Care to elaborate?"

A small smirk crawled onto his lips and he chuckled, shouldering past her and picking up his abandoned Firewhiskey. When he glanced over his shoulder to look at her, her hands had found their usual perches on her hips.

Lucius clicked his tongue at him. "Do enlighten her, Draco. It's terribly unkind to leave her out."

He considered his father's words for a moment, then turned to face his mother. "How well do you remember last night?"

Scepticism painted her face in the shadows of the dying fire and she glanced helplessly between her husband and her son. "What in the world does that have to do with anything?"

"How well do you remember it?" he repeated. "Do you recall what you ate?"

"Lucius, this is ridiculous." Despite his wife's appeal, the elder Malfoy simply raised his hands in mock-defence and shot his son an encouraging nod. "Now, don't you-"

"Do you know where you were, or with whom you spent the evening?"

"You know precisely where I was."

"But do _you_?"

"Of course I do!" she said crossly.

He offered his mother a gentle nod. "As anyone would, I'm sure." Without a second's hesitation, Draco downed what was left in his glass. As a matter of fact, Narcissa Malfoy had spent the majority of the evening in this very room – in was the only one on the ground floor that her brother-in-law didn't frequent, and Draco was well-aware of their estranged relationship. "And what of, say, the first of December?" She said nothing, merely watched him as he slowly advanced. "You remember it. Perhaps not as precisely as you'd like, but you've a vague memory of December, the first, don't you? Or the twenty-fifth of June, or the eleventh of February? The date is meaningless." Draco pursed his lips. "With each subsequent day, your memory, like anyone's, grows fuzzier. Eventually, you won't remember the first of December, at all. You won't remember yesterday. You'll know that it happened, but you won't recall where you were or what you did, will you?" 

"I… suppose not," she said slowly, delicately crossing her arms in front of her. "But-"

"What if I told you that _Ginny Weasley_ wouldn't remember last night? Or June, or February…? What if I told you that she wouldn't remember anything before the fourth of August, the year before last?"

Her eyes were wide with shock. "Draco, what did you do?"

He shrugged, allowing her the opportunity to draw her own conclusions. 

"Y-you've erased her memory, haven't you?" she breathed. Draco said nothing, but he smirked over his empty glass at her. He didn't need to say it; his eyes told her everything that his lips withheld. "Permanently?" she asked, looking over her shoulder at her husband, who wore a rare, proud smile.

"Permanently."

"And… she'll remember nothing?" Narcissa studied her son for a moment, but his smirk did not falter. She glanced down at her copy of _The_ _Daily Prophet_ , at the Weasley girl's grinning face. "Who else knows?"

"They all do."

Her eyes flew back toward him. "And precisely when did you intend on telling me?"

Yet again, Draco simply shrugged his shoulders, dismissing her question. "You wanted nothing to do with the girl."

She scoffed, and both men knew what was coming: an onslaught of exasperated disapproval and, Draco was certain, protestation. He was almost relieved when his father intervened, though his intervention did nothing to calm her. If anything, she appeared more frazzled.

"Come now, Narcissa, perhaps if you'd paid the situation any mind-"

"I paid it plenty of mind, Lucius," she snapped at him. "One doesn't simply _ignore_ something like this."

"Though one may try," Draco muttered. Two pairs of eyes shot in his direction, and he gave a lazy roll of the eyes. "You asked me to keep you blind to it, Mother, and that's what I did."

"And yet, when it matters-"

"When it _matters_?" he repeated. She opened her mouth to correct herself, but he didn't allow her the chance. "No, I suppose you're right. Once we had silenced the dungeon, what happened to Weasley didn't _matter_ , did it? Out of sight, out of mind."

She was silent for a moment, apparently contemplating his words. "You know that isn't what I-"

"I kept it from you to preserve your safety," he said darkly, gesturing past her, "and Father's, and my own."

But Narcissa didn't seem entirely convinced. "Potter's no fool, Draco. He'll have had her memory repaired."

"All the better."

She took a small step back, and when he didn't continue, looked to her husband for help. He rose with a royal sort of grace and took her gently by the forearm. "The boy's too clever for his own good, you know," he said.

"I learned from the best." And, in the most vulgar sense, he had. It had been his father, after all, that had manipulated the very same Weasley girl nearly ten years back, using a little, black diary that had nearly killed her.

Narcissa shook her head from side to side, dismissing the short-lived bonding between father and son. "No. No! Rudolphus was right. We should have killed her months ago—we should have been done with it!"

"As much as I'd like to see another Weasley buried," he met his father's eyes over his mother's head, "she'll prove more useful to us alive."

She looked up at him, eyes wide. "Merlin, don't tell me _you_ …?" she trailed off, as though the words that had formed in her mind were too sour to sit upon her lips.

"No. _No._ You know I've no interest in her," he insisted, and not for the first time. Narcissa pursed her lips, stifling a comment that she had heard her brother-in-law make, time and time again, in reference to the Weasley girl: _pure blood was pure blood_. The Weasleys were, by lineage, as pure as any Malfoy or Black, but by behaviour, dirtier than their muggle-born allies. "I only mean that," Draco went on, pulling her from her thoughts, "in keeping her alive, we may have secured our freedom."

She tilted her head to the side. "How do you mean?"

"The damage I've done to her memory is irreversible, and virtually undetectable," he said slowly, guiding her toward him as he spoke. " _If_ she were to receive a Reversal, she _would_ remember the being held captive. She would remember every sadistic detail."

She came forward, releasing his hand and cupping his cheeks instead. "Draco, I don't understand."

"I'm telling you that even if her memory is repaired, Ginny Weasley will remember only what I have permitted her to remember. Nothing more." He smirked. "I've made certain... alterations."

"What alterations?"

He laid his hands over his mothers'. "The ones that paint the Malfoy family as unwilling participants to her captivity." He paused, watching her face in an attempt to gauge a reaction, but her expression did not change. "The few memories she'll have of us will be sympathetic ones."

She was silent for a moment, then, "your uncle doesn't know, does he?"

"No."

"She'll only remember him," she breathed.

"And Rabastian. And the Carrows."

"And Augustus?"

"And poor, dim-witted Augustus."

Lucius pressed a chaste kiss to his wife's temple. "Bright beyond his years, isn't he?"

"Weasley will only know that you were weepy and sympathetic for her plight. She will know that Father was stoic and silent, and that we all share a distinct hatred for the others," he explained.

"And what of you?"

The smirk returned to his lips and mischief shone in his eyes. "I will have been an unlikely friend in _helpless situation_." He lifted the final words, feigning his own helplessness and portraying the Draco Malfoy that Weasley's memory would have preserved. "As far as Weasley will remember, we have been captives in our own home for all this time. If and when the Aurors arrive, Weasley will have no choice but to testify in our favour—and we'll be rid of the Uncle Rudolphus and Rabastian, the Carrows, _and_ Rookwood, for good."

It took a moment for Narcissa to process what, precisely, he was telling her. But when it landed, it landed hard, and she pursed her lips. "If she doesn't testify?"

He squeezed his mother's hands as his smirk grew wider. "Have you ever known a Gryffindor to let down a friend or an ally?"


	5. Cliché Ideals

Her head was spinning.

Each and every breath sent her swirling through the vast whirlpool of consciousness. She swung helplessly back and forth, into and out of a primal sort of awareness. Her senses gave in to the all-encompassing darkness and her thoughts fell away, but she was alive. It was not entirely unlike sleeping. Memories, or rather images, crept forward, drawing her deeper and deeper into the darkness.  _Her mother furiously stirred something in an over-sized pot, an old boyfriend snuck a wink across the Great Hall when he thought no one was looking, several teary-eyed men lowered a black casket into a plot marked with her brother's name_. They swam before her without order or organization, a jumbled mess of intertwined memories, until the current turned again, yanking her into limited consciousness. There, she ached – her entire body throbbed as though she had been beaten nearly to death by a pair of Bludgers – and she struggled to verbalize her pain. She could feel her brow pinch with the effort, feel the air pass over tender vocal folds, and could hear a soft voice somewhere in the distance. A hand found her cheek, and she relaxed into it, surrendering as she was washed away once more into the darkness, where the images took over again.

It became a nauseating cycle over which she had no control. She could only submit to its will and ride the waves of consciousness as the tide came in.

Somehow, she knew that she was sleeping, that her memories couldn't possibly be in the correct order. After all, she'd donned her green-and-gold uniform long after her days of scribbling her woes into a cursed journal. A sense of organization had begun to set in; images steadily grew more sequential, until full memories began to play before her, memories whose details she was beginning to identify: _her first full-bodied patronus galloping about the Room of Requirement, the crowd erupting with applause as the Irish took the Quidditch World Cup, her own reflection staring back at her in a magnificent, white gown-_

_"They want her alive_."

Just like that, it all came rushing back, like one of those muggle videos Harry had finally shown her. She had been attacked in Diagon Alley, that elderly man had snapped her wand in half, and he had-

"No!"

She bolted upright, drenched in a cold sweat, but someone else pushed her back down. Her response was instinctual – a combination of being attacked and having grown up in a house with six older brothers must have left her in a constant state of defence – and, with a guttural and pained groan, she swung a fist in her attacker's direction.

Her ability to think in a linear fashion was interrupted by her sudden excess of adrenaline; she didn't know if she had made contact, she didn't know how she had suddenly gotten to her feet, but before she could even begin to identify what was happening, there were two of them, and then three. Perhaps there were even four or five, she couldn't possibly tell. All she knew was that she had fallen to the ground, that they had restrained her, and that an unfamiliar potion was suddenly being forced into her mouth. She coughed and she spit and she sputtered and she screamed, but they held her firmly in place until the sickeningly sweet liquid slipped down her throat and into her stomach.

Throughout the ordeal, she hadn't seen, let alone identified, a single face – blind panic had driven her, and nothing else – but as a pair of hands settled upon her cheeks and as her captors' grips slowly began to loosen, she carefully peeled her eyes back open. But instead of the hard, lined face of the old man in Diagon Alley, a familiar, kind one with wide, worried eyes stared back at her. She opened her mouth to speak, but she could do little more that gape at him like a fish gulping helplessly at the air.

He glanced up, nodding to her captors (who, upon closer inspection, were simply a few medi-wizards) and muttering something to the effect of, "I've got her." They released her, and her eyes flew back to her saviour.

"H-Harry?" she breathed.

The corners of his lips twitched upward and he brushed the hair out of her eyes. "It's okay, Gin, it's just a Calming Draught," he said softly, cupping her jaw in his hand. "You're alright. You're safe."

"But I-I thought..."

"I know, Ginny. I know," he whispered as he ran his thumb delicately across her cheekbone. His eyes wandered over her face, studying it as though he had never seen her before. Or as if he were trying to memorize each and every freckle. When he finally settled upon her eyes again, she saw those familiar emeralds become glassy.

Ginny reached out to brush her fingers down his cheek, but when she reached his chin, he drew back. Beneath the stubble, his skin was red and swollen. She wet her lips and let out a shaking breath. "I hit you."

A gentle chuckle rippled through him and he laced his fingers in between hers. "Yeah, well… Glad to see you've still got that right hook." She bit back a smile, but Harry wore his broadly, like a badge of honour.

And suddenly, without warning, Ginevra Molly Weasley, world-famous Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, became the eleven-year-old girl that had stuck her elbow in the butter dish. Despite herself, she released a soft, breathy chuckle and lifted her eyes to find his. A reassuringly familiar smile shone in them, a smile that filled her entire body with warmth and energy.

"C'mon," he said, "we need to get you back into bed." He repositioned himself and wrapped an arm around her waist. Ginny was a professional athlete, so she was no stranger to stiff muscles or bruises, but this was something she had never experienced before; each and every bone, muscle, and joint howled in agony all the way back to her starched, white bed. The pain must have shown on her face or she must have groaned louder than she realized, because Harry tightened his grip and mumbled apologies as he laid her back down against her stiff pillow.

Ginny pressed her eyes shut and remained still, which simply seemed to put Harry on high-alert. "All right?" She didn't respond. The sudden movement had turned her stomach over and triggered a bout of terrible vertigo, leaving her to tumble helplessly as the waves of nausea washed over her. Harry grabbed her hand and squeezed; he was the only thing keeping her anchored to her spot, but even he couldn't keep her from submerging. She was slipping beneath the surface, no matter how hard she paddled to keep afloat. "Ginny, you look like you're going to be-"

Bile rose, thick and hot, in her throat, and Ginny instinctually turned the other way. On trembling arms, her body heaved up her stomach's contents, gagging her in its wake. Like the nausea before it, and consciousness before that, the sick came in distinct waves; she wretched, then was given a brief reprieve before she vomited once more. Harry gathered her hair at the base of her neck and gave her shoulder a reassuring pat as she struggled to regain control of her breathing between fits of uncontrollable spewing.

"You're okay, Gin. I've got you."

She responded with little more than helpless choking.

When her body had finished its brutal purge, after it had left its host breathless, trembling, and exhausted, she collapsed onto her stiff sheets as a welcome comfort, swiping the back of her hand across her lips to rid them of any residual sick.

Her oesophagus burned from the acidic assault and her abdomen ached as though she'd been kicked, but the spinning room was slowing to a gradual stop and breathing was steadily becoming an easier task.

" _Scourgify_."

"Thank you," she mumbled.

She could practically see him smile and shake his head at her, though she did not turn to look at him. "Why don't you lie back down?"

She nodded, swallowing her pride (and the sharp, rancid taste of bile) before accepting his arm to pull herself more fully onto the bed. Almost hesitantly, she opened her eyes and for the first time, she fully observed her surroundings: white walls, a white ceiling lit by harsh, white lights; there were white sheets on her white bed, white window hangings covering a white window, all of which contrasted starkly with Harry's violet jumper. Frankly, the overwhelming appearance of sterility gave her stomach another painful twist.

"I'm in St. Mungo's," she said automatically. It wasn't a question, and neither of them treated it as one. Harry just lowered his eyes, bobbing his head in a soft nod as Ginny laid her ownhead back, submitting to silent indignation. "Can't we just… go home?" she muttered.

Harry lifted his eyebrows at her, smiling an amused smile. "You know we can't."

"But I'm fine."

"Ginny," he said gently, taking her hand in his, "you need to rest."

"And I can't do that in Grimmauld Place?" Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to curl up in her and Harry's bed with a belly full of dittany, a nice mugful of something warm clasped between her hands, and her fiancé tangled in the sheets beside her, the same way she would recover from her various Quidditch injuries.

He sighed, squeezing her hand. "We'll get you back home as soon as we can, Gin." He took her gently by the chin and pressed his lips to her forehead; he lingered far longer than he usually did, but she leaned into him nonetheless, savouring the intimate contact between her and her husband-to-be. When he finally pulled away again, tears shone in his eyes and he slid his fingertips up her jawline and into her hair. "But until then, you need to get better. Okay?" His voice had become uncharacteristically tight, finally cracking on his last word.

Her eyes twitched narrower. "Harry," she said softly, lifting a hand to his scruffy cheek. He turned into her touch and closed his eyes. "Really, I'm fine."

He laid his hand over hers and turned his head to kiss her palm. "Y-you don't have to do that, Gin," he said slowly, struggling to meet her eye. "The Healers told me."

"Told you what?"

"They told me wh-what happened."

She let out something of a nervous chuckle. "And… what did they tell you happened?"

"You know," he said. He watched her in the same way that she watched him, searching desperately for any indication as to what the other meant. After a moment, when it became abundantly clear that she did not, Harry's eyebrows twitched toward the centre of his face. "Why don't  _you_  tell me what happened, Gin?"

Ginny simply shrugged her shoulders and wet her lips. "A man – well, a pair of men, I suppose – attacked me… in Diagon Alley."

His face contorted into one of confusion before finally settling into that familiar, hardened expression she had seen him wear around his trauma victims. He was on an expedition for information, and he was going to get it, no matter what it took. "Then what?" he urged her.

"Then?" she shrugged again, offering him little more than a soft, impatient sigh. "Then, nothing, Harry. Then I woke up here."

Harry's eyebrows inched upward, and what remained of his patented Auror expression fell away to be replaced by one of shock. He opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly seemed incapable. He swiped his tongue over his dry lips, taking her face between his hands and searching her face for something – anything – more. "Th-that's all you remember?"

"Harry, that's all that happened."

Something about his expression fell as he looked at her. He released a slow, shaking breath and dropped his hands onto her bed: one landed upon her thigh, which he gave a gentle squeeze before suddenly getting to his feet. "I'll be right back-"

"Wh-where're you going?"

"I'm sorry, Gin."

"But-"

"Don't worry," he said tightly, dropping a quick kiss onto the top of her head. "Everything's going to be just fine."

"N-no, wait!" He didn't. "Harry, wait!"

But he had already disappeared through the doorway.

* * *

She gave an impetuous sigh, crossed her arms over her chest in a display of childish, stubborn obstinacy, and avoided the older male's gaze. "This is absolutely ri _dic_ ulous," she mumbled under her breath. Harry was stood off to the side, his eyes narrowed with concern as the Healer scribbled something – of no importance, she was absolutely certain – on his clipboard. His line of questioning  _was_  ridiculous. Any one of these responses, he could have gotten from her mother, or her father, or from Harry. The Healer had asked her for her full name and her birthdate, then for the names of her brothers, the date of Victory Day, and the name of her Quidditch team.

He looked up suddenly, plastering on that infuriatingly pleasant smile he wore. "And, Miss Weasley, your fiancé's name is?"

"Oh, for the sake of Merlin's bollocks," she rolled her eyes toward Harry. "Harry James Potter, born on the thirty-first of July in 1980. Now, stop it. Stop with the questions." She cast a glare over her shoulder toward her fiancé, whom she had just named. "I'm telling you... I'm  _fine_!"

The middle-aged wizard pursed his lips into a thin line, mimicking Harry's concerned frown. "Miss Weasley, I assure you, I've only got a few more." She set her jaw and glared at him as though he had sentenced her to a year in Azkaban, instead. "Now, can you tell me the last thing you remember before waking up in the hospital this afternoon?"

"I was attacked in Diagon Alley," she muttered. It wasn't exactly something she was keen on admitting to a stranger, and her pride took a blow when she said the words aloud for the second time; she was much stronger than the situation made her appear, and she had, after all, been outnumbered and disarmed. But Ginny swallowed that pride and looked back up at the Healer, just in time to catch the less-than-subtle glance he shared with Harry.

He cleared this throat. "Can you describe your attack?"

She scoffed.

"Ginny, please," Harry chimed in. "It's really very important."

"What do you want to hear?" she demanded, glancing between them. "That I can't defend myself?"

"No, of course not, Miss Weasley." Her temper was growing more and more flagrant, and his condescension wasn't bloody helping. "We are only interested in your recollection of these events."

"What  _is_  this, a formal assault report?"

Whether or not she was willing to admit it, Ginny Weasley was exhausted – she was mentally, physically, and emotionally spent – and she was growing more so by the second. This pseudo-interrogation acted much like a flame, striking her remarkably short fuse and rapidly deteriorating her limited patience. Harry had already caught on, she could see the lines of concern deepening between his eyebrows, and the Healer – Witson, she vaguely recalled him saying his name was – was slowly coming to realize his losing battle.

"Because, believe you me, I will be filing a report with the Ministry," she added, for good measure.

The Healer laid his clipboard down on his lap and peered over his square spectacles at her. "Miss Weasley, can you tell me today's date?"

Ginny dropped her arms, leaning her head back against her pillow and releasing a hollow chuckle. "Ridiculous," she repeated.

"Please, Gin." Harry stepped forward and laid a hand upon her shoulder. "What is today?"

Her brow creased with disbelief, but Harry squeezed her shoulder, a silent plea for her to simply answer the question. She shifted her gaze to the Healer, who sat in suspenseful anticipation, his quill poised on his clipboard, before she looked back up at Harry again. She sighed. "It's August fourth." Harry's expression took a drastic turn downward, quite literally, and the Healer's quill flew furiously across Ginny's medical file. She looked back and forth between them, but neither one of them seemed pleased by her response.

Harry, in fact, appeared to be struggling with the urge to hit something.

"What?"

"Ginny, I…" he trailed off, apparently at a loss for words. He flattened her hair with his hand. With a soft sigh, Harry put on a brave smile – undoubtedly for her sake – before dropping another kiss onto her head. "I love you," he whispered into her hair.

Harry's sudden change in demeanour was less than encouraging. All at once, her body stiffened and a cold sort of panic set in. "What?" she demanded. "What's wrong?" The pair of men exchanged another glance, which only served to throw Ginny's temper into over-drive. "What the  _hell_  aren't you telling me?"

Now, it was her turn to ask the questions, and after the line of superfluous questioning she had just endured, Ginny would not be denied her responses.

"Now, don't be alarmed-"

"Don't be alarmed? Why would I be alarmed?" Her manner of speaking – her pace and her tone, in particular – had transformed; whether he liked it or not, she was very quickly becoming alarmed. "What's going on?"

"Now, we will do all that we can to r-"

" _No._ " Ginny sat up suddenly, ignoring the grumbles of protestation from her aching body. "I'm not a bloody _child_ , all right?" And she wouldn't stance for being treated as one, which struck a particular chord in the fiery redhead. As the youngest of seven Weasleys, and as the only girl, Ginny had been babied and coddled and  _protected_  for as long as she could remember. Her mother had forbidden her from playing Quidditch with her brothers in the orchard, her brothers had harassed any boy that dared to give her a second glance in school, and Harry constantly fussed over her various bruises and broken bones when she came home from a particularly rough match – most recently, the crushing defeat the Harpies had received from Puddlemere. Ginny Weasley wasn't fragile. She could ride a broom before she was six years old, she was fully capable of dictating her love-life, and she could certainly handle a couple of broken ribs. They were fools to think that she couldn't handle this, whatever the hell it was. "Just - be straightforward with me," she said a bit more gently. "Why do you want to know my birthday, or which team I play for, or my fiancé's name? What am I missing?"

He pursed his lips and lowered his eyes for a brief moment. His voice grew soft, solemn. "There is no easy way to say this, Miss Weasley, but... there seems to be a significant gap in your living memory."

Her eyes narrowed in confusion. "What're you talking about?"

"You're suffering from acute memory loss," he told her. "The damage may be reparable, of course-"

"Memory loss-?"

"The specificity of the damage suggests that it was likely caused by some sort of memory charm."

"What memory loss?" she repeated, this time more desperately, but he didn't seem to hear her.

"Miss Weasley, I really must insist that you be admitted to St. Mungo's until your memory has been restored – for your own safety."

Her jaw fell slack, her lips parted, and she laughed. She didn't find his words particularly comical, but it was the only sound that came out of her mouth. She stared at him, just stared, for what felt like an excruciating amount of time, waiting for one of the two men to smile and admit that this was just some cruel joke. But neither Harry nor the greying Healer smiled. Neither of them joined in her nervous laughter. They only watched her, waiting for a response. "You're wrong," she said simply, but her voice wavered with doubt.

"Ginny, he's not." She turned to Harry, gently shaking her head from side to side as she struggled understand the assertion.

"N-no. My memory is fine-"

"Gin," Harry brushed her hair out of her face. "Today is the sixteenth of December," he said as gently as he could. Her eyes widened. But all of the gentleness in the world couldn't have softened this blow. "It's been… over a year since you were abducted from Diagon Alley."

There was a brief moment of silence between the three of them. Then, "… Abducted?" she breathed.

Harry held her eyes, and Ginny searched his, but she found only stern resolve. After a moment, he broke eye contact; he lowered his gaze and nodded his head. "Abducted, yeah."

A Dementor may as well have just strolled into the room.

The air grew suddenly colder, catching in her throat like a solid hunk of ice, and the lights grew suddenly harsher, accelerating the production of tears in her lacrimal ducts. She blinked them away, shaking her head as though her denial of the words might somehow make them less true. The Healer's smile had disappeared – his expectant gaze no longer seemed quite as friendly or infuriatingly pleasant – and Harry watched her with bated breath, perhaps thinking that he had finally pushed her temper too far – that he had ignited an inferno within her that would envelop the entire hospital and consume all of its inhabitants.

But instead, Ginny furiously fought off her threatening tears, blinking them back before they dared to fall.

She had only just been in the tailor's shop, marvelling at her appearance and arranging for her wedding gown to be delivered. It couldn't have been more than a few hours ago. She had signed her name onto that bit of parchment for a young girl named Veronica. She could still feel the quill in her hand; she could still feel the flamboyant twist she gave her wrist to loop the tail of the final 'y' in her name. Her memory was so vivid, so precise. It had  _just_  happened. Then, the old man had backed her into the alley and disarmed her. He had kicked her in the stomach, she could feel the inevitable bruise he had left, and he had grabbed her by the robes…

And he had disapparated. She remembered.  _"You'll regret that, Weaslette_ ," he had growled, and then, he had disapparated.

After that, there was nothing: only images, brief fragments of misaligned memory, that drifted behind her eyelids, mystifying her until they finally realigned themselves once again. She had no idea how she had gotten here and no recollection of any events in between the two points. There  _was_  a gap. And, apparently, one that spanned over a year's time.

She looked up at Harry, suddenly recognizing the subtle hints of age that she had missed before. His stubble was far more significant than she realized – he had to have gone days without a proper shave. Dark circles lined his eyes and unfamiliar creases had formed in his brow. He wore a year's worth of change on his face, and she hadn't seen it.

"You don't remember… anything?" he tried.

The question jarred her out of the trance that Ginny had twisted herself up in. She inhaled sharply, not having realized just how long she had been holding her breath, but along with the welcome oxygen, tears came – far quicker than she could fight them off. She shook her head in the negative, desperately wiping the evidence from her lower lids with the pad of the thumb of her right hand.

Harry took her by the wrist, but she lifted her other hand to finish the work that her first had begun.

"Ginny," he said gently, swiping her second hand out of the way.

She fought him for a moment, desperate to cover the shameful moisture that had accumulated in her eyes, but Harry's grip on her was firm, and soon, tears were rolling down her cheeks in breathless waves.

"Gin…"

The sudden change of weight distribution told her, despite her sudden inability to look in his direction, that Harry had taken a seat on the edge of her bed. He released her wrists, but a hand found her cheek and he carefully guided her toward him. Ginny obliged – not because she wanted to, but because she couldn't find it in her to resist his menial attempt to comfort her – and buried her face in her usual crook beneath his chin. He held her there, laying gentle kisses into her hair and whispering words of encouragement that she couldn't hear over her ragged breathing.

Ginny Weasley did not cry, not when she could help it. She had shed a few humble tears during Dumbledore's funeral – and quite a few more during her brother's – and sure, she lost control of her temper every once in a while, but she was by no means the stereotypical, excessively-emotional woman that her brothers had always claimed her to be. She was one of the few witches in the British and Irish Quidditch League; she had been thrown off her broom from sixty feet in the air, she had been run into goalposts and struck by Beaters' bats, and she had broken more bones that she could have ever counted. And through it all, she had never shed a tear. She had been ruthlessly harassed by Death Eaters posing as teachers, she had been one of the practice subjects during an entire unit dedicated to the Cruciatus Curse, and when it was over, she had simply shouted her protestations at her wide-eyed friends in the Room of Requirement. Hell, Ginny had survived Voldemort's possession at only eleven years old - a feat that even Harry Potter couldn't lay claim to. She, like her fiancé, knew horrors beyond anyone else's imagination, and she dealt with them. She didn't blubber on about her crippling nightmares or horrifying flashbacks; she moved past them.

But this… this was too much.

This was no injury that a vial of the Essence of Dittany could repair overnight. It wasn't some injustice that she and her friends could rise up against.

"… it's okay," Harry whispered to her, running a careful hand through her tangles.

But it wasn't. Despite Harry's gentle words, despite all of his encouragement, it wasn't okay.

She didn't have any idea how long they stayed like that, or how long she cried into her fiancé's jumper. She didn't know how long the Healer sat there, watching them with pity shining in those dark eyes of his. She didn't know how long it took for Harry's woodsy scent to overcome her hysteria, to slow her pulse to a calmer pace and to steady her breathing. It must have been some time; her muscles had grown stiff and painful within her and her tears had long since dried up.

She pulled away from him and he immediately took her by the cheeks, running his thumb over her protruding cheekbones. He held her eyes for another long moment before taking in a long breath and reluctantly opening his mouth to speak. "Ginny, I'm so sorry."

She shook her head.

"I -"

Ginny pressed her stinging eyes closed. "Don't," she insisted. Her voice was uncharacteristically hoarse.

Harry nodded and leaned forward to a kiss to her scarlet cheek. It was an impulse.

She turned, catching his lips in her own. He stiffened as though surprised, but released a pleased sigh into the slow, sweet kiss. The passion – their usual heart-pounding, clothes-ripping fire – was absent, but they lacked nothing in terms of affection. This was not a moment for passion. It required something much deeper: strength, support, understanding, and patience, all churned together into a gooey, cliché ideal.

Who knew just how much Ginny had lost over the past – what was it? A year and a half? But she still had Harry. She still had her gooey, cliché ideal of love.

The Healer cleared his throat and the space between the pair of them grew. Almost begrudgingly, Ginny shifted her gaze from her fiancé to her medical caretaker. "If you would like, Miss Weasley, I can schedule you for an immediate Reversal." Her brow pinched, and he went on. "It's a very simple procedure-"

Harry was nodding his head with great enthusiasm, but Ginny cut him off. "What sort of procedure?"

"I assure you, it's no more painful than a centaur's biting wit." Ginny frowned, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harry smile at the older wizard's ill-timed attempt at humour. "It's relatively painless – similar to the sensation one would experience in extracting a memory. Mr. Potter, I'm sure you're familiar with the pensieve?"

Harry nodded his head. Despite the ease with which memories could be altered, purposefully or unconsciously, Ginny knew that memory extraction was an invaluable tool in the Auror Office.

"Well, essentially, this procedure is the opposite. Instead of extracting a memory for observance, a highly-skilled Auror would simply reverse the damage to your long-term memory."

But something deep within her made her hesitate, and she lowered her gaze. "And… if I decide to refuse the procedure?"

She could feel both pairs of eyes immediately turn in her direction, a suspicion that was easily proved with a quick glance upward.

"Gin," Harry squeezed her hand between his, "you've been missing for over sixteen months. We found you less than-" he glanced down at his watch, "fifty-six hours ago." She closed her eyes – she hadn't wanted to ask that question, but now she knew its answer: she had been missing and likely dead to the Wizarding World for over a year. "You aren't the least bit curious…?" And apparently, the Auror Office still had no leads.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could hear the elderly wizard from Diagon Alley laughing at her. She could see him gliding the tips of his fingers along her eight-and-three-quarter-inch hazel wand before snapping it in half and tossing it aside. She could feel a hand tightening its grip around her throat and the hot breath of an assailant on the back of her neck, and she shuddered, shaking her head. "I don't think I want to know."

"Ginny-"

"I don't want to know," she repeated.

He opened his mouth to object, but something stopped him. In some ways, Harry was just as strong-willed and stubborn as she was, but now, here he was, supressing his urge to argue with her. He inhaled slowly, speaking in a careful, measured tone. "Ginny, this is something I need you to do. I need you to tell me who did this, so that I can..." He sighed. "So that they, whoever they are, don't get away with this." She knew Harry, and she knew that he would stop at nothing to solve a case, especially one that hit so close to home. He held her gaze, and for a moment, Ginny could swear that she had seen pity flash behind those round-rimmed glasses. He forced an encouraging smile. "Please."

When Ginny remained stubbornly silent, the Healer rose, donned that pleasant smile of his once more, and hung her clipboard off the edge of her bed. "Sleep on it, Miss Weasley. There's no reason for you to have a decision made by tonight."

 She nodded, watching him turn to go.

Harry sighed, lifting her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles, as though nothing had changed between them or as though she had never been gone, for which she was rather thankful. Enough things were sure to have changed in her absence, and Harry was a welcome constant. When he faltered, though, her gaze dropped to the left hand clasped between his. The connecting wrist was thin, thinner than she ever recalled it being, and encircled by a thick, white scar. But that wasn't what caught her eye.

Ginny drew her hand back, taking it in for everything that it was. It was thin, almost sickeningly so, a thin layer of pale, dotted skin wrapped around offensively protruding bone. There was dirt and only Merlin dared to guess what else laden in its creases and beneath her short fingernails. It trembled violently as she held it up, as though the sheer effort it took to flex her fingers required all of the precious little energy she possessed. More disturbing, however, was its plain appearance; the modest diamond ring that she hadn't taken off since Harry's proposal was missing.

Her crimson eyebrows pulled inward and she turned her hand over and over, as though her ring was simply hiding beneath a freckle. Harry slipped his fingers between hers and lowered their hands. "We'll buy you a new one," he said knowingly.

She pursed her lips and nodded her head in silent, disappointed acceptance. She wasn't unappreciative of the gesture, but a new ring simply wouldn't mean what the first had. Harry wouldn't have run to Hermione, frantic, and begged her to help him choose it; he wouldn't have awkwardly slipped it into her hand on a rare, lazy Sunday afternoon they had with Teddy, and Teddy wouldn't have ordered his godfather to 'propose right!'; her father wouldn't have had to feign surprise and her mother wouldn't have simultaneously wept tears of joy and berated her son-in-law-to-be for not asking the question sooner. (It was eerie, sometimes, just how much Teddy's personality mirrored his Grandmother Weasley's.) A new ring would only symbolize the first's absence. It would be a constant reminder that the first was gone, and therefore a constant reminder of her own time away.

Ginny squeezed Harry's hand, forcing herself to return his smile. He saw right through the smile and sighed. "Ginny, I-"

"Maybe we could find it," she said quietly.

He lowered his eyes. "I've been looking for it – for any trace of  _you_  – since August of last year, Gin." He must have seen her expression fall, because he quickly added, "But who knows? Could turn up." 

_If we find out who did this._  

He didn't speak the words, but they hung in the air between, nonetheless. It was subtext. A conditional statement. The ring could turn up, if they knew who had taken her.

His attempt to cheer her up wasn't exactly as effective as he intended, but she certainly found it amusing. "In the meantime, you could probably use a new razor," she said, nudging him a little playfully.

He jumped on the change of subject and the change of mood with a grin on his face. "Anything for you, Gin." He scratched at what was beginning to resemble a very short beard, like she had seen some of the scruffier Quidditch players wear. "And you could stand to eat something, I'm sure." He laid a hand upon Ginny's sunken abdomen, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise when she glanced down at it. "Your mum has already insisted that you go back to the Burrow when you're released. Says that I'm not 'properly equipped' to feed you."

Ginny laughed despite herself. Prior to their engagement, her mother hadn't been quite as excited about their living arrangement as she and Harry had been; Ginny was, after all, the last little owlet to fly from the nest, and Mrs. Weasley had grasped at any and all straws to make her stay. It didn't help, she supposed, that her youngest daughter would be sleeping in Harry Potter's pre-marital bed. She grinned at the mere thought of her mother's objections. "If it's all the same to you, I would rather go back to Grimmauld Place," she laughed.

"I thought you might," Harry responded, fondly brushing her hair back. His grin steadily faded into a smaller, less amused smile, but a happy smile nonetheless. "I thought I would never see you again, you know. I thought… well, it doesn't matter what I thought."

"You thought I'd been killed," she said simply.

Harry's jaw tightened, but he shrugged his shoulders. "I never let myself believe it, but it was always in the back of my mind."

Ginny lifted her left hand to his cheek – its lack of sparkle didn't go unnoticed, nor did its sensation of sudden nakedness – and stroked his stubble with her thumb. "You'd have to be mad to think I'd leave you like that," she said with a smile.

He grinned, nodding his head. "Glad I kept my wits about me, then."

"Well, I wouldn't go as far as  _that_."

They both chuckled, just happy to share in the playful exchange and enjoy one another's presence. As the laughter faded, Harry leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You really should get some rest, Ginny. No doubt you'll have some eager visitors waiting in the morning."

"What about you? Aren't visiting hours over?"

He smirked at her. "Being Harry Potter has its advantages." Ginny grinned, but she rolled her eyes and shoved him nonetheless. "Now lay back down or I'll fetch a medi-witch and a sedative."

"You wouldn't dare."

He lifted his eyebrows as though he had been issued a challenge. "Yeah? Try me."

Rather than wager that Harry's desire to please her would outweigh his obsessive compulsion to always do the right thing, Ginny sighed and laid her head back down onto her starchy, white pillow. Harry, on the other hand, stood up, returning to his former place in one of the pair of lime-green visitor's chairs. She turned onto her side to watch him. "What're you doing all the way over there?" He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. "Come over here and lay with me, you prat."

"There's not enough room-"

"I'll move over."

"Ginny-"

"I won't have 'no' for an answer, Harry Potter," she said sternly. "Apparently, you and I haven't slept side-by-side in over a year." His expression softened and he lowered his eyes. "I can't be entirely sure, because I can't recall, but I'm fairly certain that I missed it."

She saw the corners of his lips twitch upward into a begrudging smile. "Alright. Move over, you."

Ginny scooted off to the edge of the hospital bed and lifted the thin sheet for him to climb in. He toed his shoes off and slipped into bed beside her, wrapped an arm around her frighteningly skinny waist, and pulled her to him. She nuzzled into place, finding her spot beneath his chin and sliding a dainty hand up his chest. Simultaneously, they found their niche. Like two perfect pieces of a puzzle, they fit into one another's embrace and relaxed into the comfort they found there.

It had always been that way between Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter. It had always been seamless, clean, and easy. Ginny knew that living with her could be a hassle – she didn't like to pick her clothes up off of the floor or wash the dishes, she hogged the covers at night and resembled a mountain troll in the mornings – but Harry had never seemed to mind. On the contrary, he had made the impression that all of her faults, from her hot head to her playful teasing, were endearing. He didn't love her in spite of them, he loved her  _for_  them, the same way she loved him for his obnoxious hero tendencies and his perpetually messy hair. They complimented each other in every way; he was the perfect man for her, and she was the perfect woman for him.

Harry tightened his grip around the girl he thought he had lost over a year ago, breathing in her hair and feeling her body sink into his. He had missed her, more than he could possibly say. "Love you, Gin," he whispered.

Ginny groaned an inaudible reply – she was already drifting out to sea.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Please read and review -- let me know what you think! I would absolutely love some feedback.


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